


Wishful Thinking

by calleryfield



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: fair warning it may have some typos, i also wasnt feelin super so i wrote this, i had some hajime feels im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calleryfield/pseuds/calleryfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's just trying his best. All he wanted was to be a person to bring hope into this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishful Thinking

A dark room at three in the morning.

In the room is a bed by the window. The bed itself is a mess: the blankets strewn to the side, even onto the window ledge, making the sheets of the mattress bare.  The sheets are covered from top to bottom with all kinds of wrinkles. Some parts of the sheets peek out from underneath the mattress.

Against the wall are shelves covered with all sorts of knick-knacks and books. Books about all sorts of genre: from sports, to history, to how-tos, and to novels. One would not imagine any of these books sorted all together, but there they sat next to each other.   

Clothes scatter on the floor — some from a week ago and possibly even more. Some reeking of body odor and others fairly clean. All of which are simple clothing materials. There’s no distinguishable signatures upon these clothing materials, aside from a few small designs on ties that are left lying on the desk.

By the desk, upon the chipped white wooden door hangs a small bag with a certain crest, left half open, notebooks and pamphlets of sorts — some of which nearly falling out — with the exact white lined crest marked on it.

A dark, messy room.

But not all of it is dark.

No: at the desk, slouching in the chair, is a boy. His hands are deeply entrenched into his brown hair. His olive green eyes are starting to hurt the more he stares at the brightly lit screen. He has tried turning on the desk lamp but it just will not help his eyes’ pain. He can feel the bags developing under his eyes, and he knows he should sleep… but he just can’t make himself do it. Not yet.

So what’s making him stay up so late? At three o’clock in the morning, why is this boy staying up for so long?

It’s on the screen: typed out in black pixelated words on the top of the browser he is on:

“Hope’s Peak Academy’s Reserve Course Application.”

With his tired eyes, that beg him to sleep, the boy continues to stare at this application on the screen. His head is beginning to nod off, but his ambition is far too strong for him to give way to sleep so easily.

And the pain that comes with staring at this application just won't let him rest.

 

About a week ago, he was walking back from school, after getting another 60 on his test. This was the third biggest test that he had gotten a 60 on, and he thought at least this time, it would be better — even the slightest bit. He had studied all week for the test; some days he stayed up all night trying to make himself get the information into his head… And yet, he couldn’t do it. His teachers said he passed, but for him, it was just another reminder — a reminder that he couldn’t be anything better that just average.

As he kept his eyes down to the test in his hands, he let out a sigh. He wanted to ignore everything around him: from the warm light of the sun, to the little family shops he passed by, with cute handmade statues lining the windows, to the people even passing him by; the different blocks he walked passed and the different buildings too. He blocked every single thing out. He didn’t want to hear anything at all. He just wanted silence and to be away.

Then a laugh. A cheer? Immediately, the boy was knocked back into reality. He was aware of his surroundings. Stopping and looking away from the paper, he saw that he stood before a small house. It was rather cute in his eyes: the tiny fence that came up to his waist, the dark green lawn with little windmills of various colors placed in the grass, slowly turning when the wind rushes by. Past the lawn is a wooden porch, with a little woven couch covered in light green pillows with white flower patterns.

But his attention was focused on the individuals on the porch: a mother and a daughter. The mother looked perhaps in her thirties or forties, some of her hair growing gray as the years went by and wrinkles marking her face. The daughter, on the other hand, looked about the same age as the boy. Both the mother and the daughter held a cheery look on their faces — seemingly more with the mother. In the daughter’s hands is a paper. The boy couldn’t tell what it was, but he knew that by the large grin on the mother’s face as she cheered, that must be the reason why.

“I’m so proud of you, Chiaki!” The mother cheered, hugging the daughter. “You got in!”

In?

“Thanks, Mom,” the daughter hugged back and smiled.

“But let me see that letter,” the mother cooed. The daughter passed the note, and the mother squinted, reading, “Dear Chiaki. Congratulations! On behalf of Hope’s Peak Academy, you have been accepted as the Ultimate Gamer!”

The daughter smiled happily and took the note back, looking it over again. The mother continued to praise the daughter, leading her inside. The cheers of the mother about how great the daughter was and how proud she was as a mother could still be heard as she left.

But the boy didn’t pay attention anymore. He left, running. The mother’s words echoed in his head: “Hope’s Peak Academy.” “Accepted.” The boy suddenly felt something blossom in his chest: a warm feeling that made him start running. A feeling of curiosity and the urge to go home. He ran and thought of his dream: the dream of being greater than great; the dream that maybe things will be better today; the dream of walking down the halls, sitting in the classrooms, and being with one of the greats. As he raced down the streets, as his steps quickened, the boy’s dreams became vivid in his mind. He had to know the truth.

And he was home.  He rushed to the mailbox and hastily opened the box to find different kinds of letters. He took the envelopes out and sorted through them, desperate to find it.

And there it was. With the seal that he’s practically memorized by this time, he found the envelope. In black printed ink, the boy’s name was written next to the school’s name. If he could, he would have just dropped every other letter on the ground to open it, but instead, he made himself carry all the letters inside, walking to the door and entering. Once he put the other letters on the coffee table, the boy took the most important of the letters up to his room.

When he got to his room, he closed the door and sat at his desk. Once he scooted the chair closer to the table, he leaned on his elbows, holding the envelope to eye-level, repeatedly reading his name next to the crest. He turned the envelope over, retrieving the letter inside, but once he opened the letter, he felt a deep feeling of regret pit in his stomach.

“Join the Reserve Course!”

The first four words in big, bold, black ink on the paper. He couldn’t bare to read the rest of the paper. He stopped and put the paper down. There was no greeting. There was no “congratulations.” There was no “Ultimate.”

 _He_ is no Ultimate anything.

It was just a mere advertisement to catch anyone’s eyes. It wasn’t that they really _wanted_ him individually. No: this could have easily gone out to any person in the same grade as him. It wasn’t a special letter to him, telling him he was special. No: this letter was something that spat in his face — that blew up his dreams and made him realize the truth.

He wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t good enough to be an Ultimate.

And he really won’t be. Ever.

It was here that he got knocked back into reality, realizing the truth. Realizing that in the end, all he did, all he tried out and tried his best in, it was all for nothing.

His grip on the paper got tighter. He bit down on his lower lip trying to stop himself from shedding any tears, but the pain wasn’t enough. Tears began to well up in his eyes, some falling down his face. A heavy breath and suddenly more tears began to fall. He couldn’t keep it in. No matter how he tried. He was too weak: weak and pathetic. He knew that now, and it hurt all the more when he accepted it.

As he cried harder in his room, the paper began to be covered in his tears, crumpling in his hands.

 

A gasp, and he is back — back to present time. He looks around the room, noting the bag that hung from the door, the messy bed, the shelf of ambiguous things, and the clothes on the floor. Then he turns back to what is in front of him: the reserve course application. The boy watches as the mouse blinks on and off, waiting for him to answer the question, “What would you contribute to Hope’s Peak Academy?”.

Is it worth it? Is it worth it, doing this application — knowing that he will just be a part of a group of average people? Average people like himself? Not as a special being?

Getting up from his seat, he begins to clean trying to think of something else to put his mind at ease. However, as he picks up the clothes on the floor, he could not stop himself from rethinking it over. As he picks up a dirty shirt from three days ago, his mind wanders to the reason why he decided to start this application after all. When he broke the news to his parents, they still supported him, wanting the best for him. His parents were the ones that told him that he could do it. They were the ones that managed to persuade him to start an application with Hope’s Peak as a reserve course student.

“You still have a chance,” he remembers his mom saying. A chance? He doesn’t want to believe in it again, considering that he thought the same when he strived to achieve in almost everything and still didn’t get in as an Ultimate of anything. And yet… a part of him still wants to believe.

Finally, he picks up the last pair of pants on the floor and places it into the laundry basket. He wants to believe that he does have a chance. Perhaps if he gets in, then the teachers will keep an eye on his actions, and if he strives hard enough, he’ll make a good impression. Perhaps he can move up and get in the following year. Perhaps he can make it. A chance again at a spot to be successful and amazing. To be one of the greats.

A smile is reborn on his face with hope for the better of things. Quickly, the boy walks over and sits down in front of the laptop. Looking at the application that reads the dream school’s name, he takes a deep breath in. Exhaling, he begins to answer the question.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little write up that I had for a while in my head. I hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!


End file.
